


Applied Cinematic Architecture

by rapid_apathy



Category: Community
Genre: F/M, Roleplay, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:16:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapid_apathy/pseuds/rapid_apathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the world's a stage, and one man in his time plays many parts. Some more than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place sometime after season 3. Some knowledge of Mad Men would be ideal, but you should still be able to read it without any.

The most important part of an establishing shot is to orient the viewer. Making the spatial relationship between the characters and their surroundings clear, they play an important role in preparing the viewer to receive narrative information. 

The scene is an opening long shot. A small club at night in downtown with a small hotel above it. The historic buildings preserved and renovated. Old meets new meets new-old. Surrounded by hipster coffee shops and specialty boutiques, all closed for the evening, the club sticks out like a glowing beam reflecting colored light off surrounding windows, cars, water on the asphalt.

A vintage looking green and red neon sign juts out from the building; narrow glass doors framed in brass sheet the front. With a black and white sign next to the entrance that says NO CLASS, NO PASS under white round incandescent lights, the _Three Olives_ is Greendale’s answer to what would happen if Vegas crashed into _Ciro's_. Banking on the increasing nostalgia for the past and vintage everything, this club is the mother ship of the new downtown. It’s a fun playtime backslide in time. When women were women and men were men. A time when grandpa drank away his nights in a bar, probably not too much unlike this one as movies suggest, avoiding your grandma. When wearing fedoras didn't make you look like a douche. And that is awesome, because they're cool to wear.

He's supposed to meet her here. 

-

On the bed, there is a dark grey suit laid out. A white shirt with a starched crisp point collar, simple silver cuff links already attached to the sleeves is carefully placed inside the jacket, a white square handkerchief just peeking out of the front pocket. On top, a slim grey and white striped tie with a silver tie clip. Next to the suit in a small paper bag are two packs of _Lucky Strikes_ (filtered and unfiltered), a silver Zippo lighter, a money clip with segregated pre-counted amounts, and a tube of _Groom & Clean_ with a note taped on it.

_ Three Olives at nine tonight. _ _Mr. Draper will be interested in a beautiful girl sitting at the bar_. 

Underneath the note is a Google Maps print out of directions and scribbled on the paper: _PS - the shoes and hat are at the foot of the bed._

_ PSS – Be sure to wear your argyle socks. But NOT the yellow ones. Don’t forget your ID. _

_ PSSS – If you smoke in the apartment I will kill you. _

_ PSSSS – Happy Birthday! _

He opens the jacket and sees a rather thin label that has _Brocks Bros – Angry Men Edition_ stitched on it. It takes him a brief moment before he realizes that it's a reproduction of the reproduction 2009 _Mad Men_ limited edition clothing line from _Brooks Brothers_ designed by costume designer Janie Bryant. A quality affordable Chinese knock off that only sweat shops and child labor can provide.

He checks the foot of the bed and as promised, there’s a shoe box with a grey hat on top of it. The shoes are shiny black and the hat matches the suit perfectly. He lays everything out and looks at it. It’s times like these Annie’s compulsive perfectionism is nothing less than, well, perfect. He looks at the clock and it’s already seven so he quickly strips off his skinny jeans, hoodie and t-shirt, showers and shaves. Slicking his hair, he keeps some volume in the front as opposed to a more severe straight pull back. According to hair stylist Lucia Mace in _Contemporary Hair Artistry in Film and Television_ , Jon Hamm's angled face was framed better with a slight lift in the bang with a side part. And it turns out, so is his. 

The suit is a great fit; she must have gotten the measurements from his Abed Being Normal suit. In an interview with _Wall Street_ ’s costumer Ellen Mirojnick, she pointed out that in _Mad Men_ , the suits worn by Don Draper ooze office alpha male, with their trim silhouettes, skinny lapels and single-vented jackets. Entering the room like an elegant yet masculine skyscraper, Draper wears high-lustre suits of silk and mohair in charcoal and gunmetal grey, accessorized with white dress shirts and confidence-inspiring neckties.

 “He wears classic, gorgeous-cut garments that make you feel like you are looking at the man, and not necessarily at the clothes,” she said. “And it looks altogether cool.”

Looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, he has to agree.

He grabs the unfiltered _Lucky Strikes_ (authenticity) and puts them in the top pocket of the dress shirt and does a good once over in the mirror of the full shebang. The look is powerful and razor sharp and makes him feel conciliated and indestructible. And very Season One.

Cool. 

Cool cool cool.

\---

We're cut to an upwards angle long shot of the man walking towards the door of the club. His face is partially hidden by a grey fedora, just tilted enough to shadow his features. It’s critical to use this type of shot to emphasize to the audience that this is the main character, he’s powerful and important. (Before leaving, he spent about fifteen minutes practicing the angle in the bathroom mirror.) There are important details into the structure and context of a character. The blue prints, you might say. And if Don Draper is anything, it’s mysterious and present and very leading man. 

Outside the door of the _Three Olives_ , he was expecting to see a seven foot tall three hundred pound steroid powerhouse with a clipboard lording over a velvet rope, turning away anyone in a line that winds around the block, he deems ugly, not cool or not showing enough boobage. Instead, there’s a moderate but non-intimidating line of about twenty people and at the head of the line, there’s a surprisingly small statured doorman standing in front of another boringly normal small looking man sitting at a small wooden podium in a black suit checking ID’s, taking covers, and putting little black light ink stamps on patrons’ wrists. 

He takes out the money Annie had pre-counted out for him lined up and tucked neatly in the money clip; various amounts separated by paperclips and small labels, and finds the one that is labeled, “cover charge”. 

After about twenty minutes waiting, he’s greeted by the small man who is on auto repeat, “Have your ID and thirty dollar cover ready. No smoking outside the bar area, two drink minimum.”

He hands the other little man the money and his ID and the man says, “Thank you, inside of your right wrist please,” and hands his ID back, gives him a little invisible stamp and he heads inside. 

Not exactly what his cinematic trope knowledge had always led him to believe, but if you film in a low positioned shot at a full walking pace in a rear tracking shot focusing on an inanimate object or someone’s mid back and put it to catchy music, something as pedestrian as carrying a brief case or flashing a card to gain entrance somewhere seems inherently cool.

 At least it does when George Clooney or Bradd Pitt does it.

-

When you go into the club, it’s like walking into 1961. If 1961 had people texting on smartphones anyway. It’s a rather impressive looking joint, better than he expected because let’s face it, this is Greendale. The ceiling is Tudor roses on white pressed tin panels, framed with over sized white moldings. Everything from the busy casino patterned carpeted and checkered linoleum floors to the smoke haze dimming the room to the heavy noise dampening red brocade draped on the walls tell you you’re in the overly romanticized anachronistically challenged past. 

The extras are all in era costuming, hair slicked or beehived or Jackie Kennedy’d. Glamorous accessories, gloves, hats, big bold jewelry, earrings you see women clipping on and off every time they try to talk on the phone, tiny clutches that couldn’t possibly hold anything more than a tampon and a credit card. You’ve travelled. Not where, but when. He catches a look at himself in a mirror and sees himself in the backdrop of time. 

It’s almost like that episode of _Inspector Spacetime_ when the Inspector travelled back and met his past self. Only here, he finds himself in the _Tropicana_ lounge _._ And himself in another self pretending to be someone else. And all the while an advertising convention was going on. Crossover episode. Peter Campbell is the host for a Glorock alien, which tells the viewers why he’s such a smarmy opportunist bastard. He’s infiltrated 1960s advertising unbeknownst to his co-workers to enslave the human race with subliminal _Secor Laxative_ commercials which alter brain waves. But not as in the original with the Second Inspector, he was terrible. Fifth or Tenth maybe. Annie could play Trudy, she looks like her in a way. Jeff could play Don. Chang as Peter, Britta; Mrs. Draper #1, Pierce is a ringer for Roger and Shirley, Joan. She has a matching top half of her. It’s close enough. 

That would be cool.

The camera switches to a tracking shot following him as he walks over to the bar. It’s a monolithic wood structure that is sunken into the flat paneled dark wood wall, mirrored backed shelves stocked with every kind of booze you can imagine, frosted glass covered lights hang elegantly from the ceiling making everyone look better than they really do. Red backless vinyl stools on large brass stands full of poufy layers of taffeta, lace and tulle from the women waiting on their drinks. The bar staff is all wearing vests and bowties, the waitresses walk back and forth with trays. They’re dressed like Playboy bunnies only sluttier and sans the ears. And if this weren’t enough to send a thrill on an era appropriate set, there’s bombshell cigarette girls wandering with their trays strapped on their shoulders. Approaching with an alluring smile they ask, “Cigars? Cigarettes? Tiparillos?”

You can’t help but say, “All of the above.”

You’d never think it from seeing the outside, but the place is surprisingly large inside. The bar is the naturally the first thing you run into, There’s a small band playing on a stage at the far end and a sunken hardwood dance floor with couples swaying in front of them. Rows of small tables encircle the stage and floor. Sofas and conversation pits in the darkness of the upper level looking down on everyone else, half naked waitresses hurrying back and forth. 

There was no episode of _Mad Men_ that took place in a club like this. The closest thing to it was when Don Draper went to a cramped small venue with his artist girlfriend and her hippie friends. This would be more like if _Casino_ slammed into _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_. 

But, this. _This_ is better. As a director, you want to have a blank slate within a universe to bring your true vision to light, without the confines of what has come before. Outside of the established scripts and under your own paradigm. 

A one shot. 

His back is in a foreground medium shot that pulls its focus in on a woman in a red dress near the end of the bar when she finally catches the lead’s eye. The shot pans to her, removing him from the viewer’s sight as it centers in, a backless red halter dress exposing the gentle slope of shoulders and inward curve of spine. Brown hair swept up in a loose bouffant, thick black eyelashes and red lips. And for sure, he would be drawn to her even if this scene wasn’t storyboarded this way. The context of this scene is his detached admiration and infatuation with this particular woman, even if it’s not completely apparent to the audience yet. In an off-script smile, he almost gives it away.

That can be fixed in editing later.

Cut to a medium shot as he approaches. She looks quickly to him and then back, her cheeks blushed and a clearing in her throat as she relaxes and gets into her role. Sometimes actresses have a hard time with a handsome and sexually irresistible lead man until they get comfortable with him. According to Lily Collins, Julia Roberts still gets nervous on set. Whitney Houston said she had terrible anxiety when she found out she was working with Kevin Costner. Happens all the time. He can’t help that God made him so sexy. Leaning on the counter, faced towards her, without looking away he points to the bartender and says, “I’ll have an Old Fashioned,” nodding towards her, “and another of what she’s having.” 

Her skin is white and smooth and all of her is beautiful pale and red. She smiles brightly and takes a sip out of her glass and says, “Thank you. But I think I’ve had enough tonight.”

Putting his hat in one hand and pulling the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket he smiles and says, “One more can’t hurt.” He motions to offer her one, but she shakes her head and puts her hand up politely refusing. Placing the cigarette on his lip, he takes out his lighter and it makes that lovely sequential of clicks when you do it just right (he rehearsed in the cab on the way over just to make sure) and takes that first drag. Only instead of looking smooth and cool, the smoke hits his throat much hotter than a normal cigarette and he starts coughing uncontrollably. 

So unprofessional. 

Jumping out of her seat, the woman pats him on the back as he bends over hacking like an amateur she says, “Oh my God, Abed, are you alright?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” he croaks through his burning larynx. “It’s alright,” he says clearing his throat standing straight, quickly wiping his teary pink eyes. “Just a cold I’m fighting.”

She leans in and whispers before she smoothes the back of her dress behind her sitting back on the bar stool, “I left the filtered for a reason, you know.”

The bartender comes over with his drink and says, “Hey buddy, you alright?”

Jesus Christ, the walk-ons aren’t supposed to ad-lib. “Everything is fine, really.” 

Just a prop malfunction.

A rookie mistake. 

You can always tell when an actor isn’t really smoking. Whether it’s tobacco, herbs or marijuana, the rules apply. If they take a drag and the smoke just stays in their mouth for a second, it comes out in a thick bloated mass with no shape, hanging in the air before floating away on its own disjointed accord. It looks terrible. It’s a complete deviation and insult to your character commitment as a professional. When someone smokes properly, it’s controlled and comes out as a beautiful, symmetrical dispersal on the exhale. 

It’s why women go crazy for the jaded main character with never ending perma-stubble. He’s hard-boiled, bad ass, and saves the fucking day with a Marlboro and a sub-machine gun. Like in _Die Hard_. Any movie with Bruce Willis really. Or, the alpha males with their trim silhouettes, skinny lapels and single-vented jackets entering the room like an elegant yet masculine skyscraper. 

It’s an image thing.

Depending on the algorithm used, Don Draper would only be half to three quarters as sexy if he didn’t smoke those cigarettes like a boss. This kind of sex appeal is easy to construct as a director or screen writer if you follow a subset of rules and narrative devices. Sexy smoking or evil smoking. Cool smoking or after school special smoking. All conform to a universal understanding of characterization. 

Take your character seriously. 

Hollywood legend says that Nicolas Cage had his teeth pulled so he could better look the part of a veteran who had half his face blown off. He binge drank to understand and portray his cirrhotic liver character in _Leaving Las Vegas_.

Go big or go home.

It gets harder and harder to find this level of commitment. But, Annie on the other hand always commits. Even if it means punching him in the chest or showing some hypnotizing cleavage while mowing down targets with a paintball gun or role playing kinky sex between an elf maiden and a hung ranger. She gets it. Ever the perfectionist, she goes the distance. 

So he pulls another drag and takes it like a champ. It still burns like hell, and he can’t imagine people smoked these before filters were invented, but if you don’t suffer for your art, then you might as well quit. And he’s not going to let a prop screw this up. 

“So,” he says, leaning back on the counter instantly slipping back into character, his voice squeaks a little before he brings it down and low and inflected, but he keeps the scene on track, “You enjoying this place?”

We’re cut to a medium two shot. With the framing being tighter to the conversation, the audience will be more emotionally involved with the story, as refined performances and reactions can be seen in the characters. It focuses on subtle facial expressions that follow a structure to imitate, without having to understand them.

Leaning toward him she asks if he’s sure he’s okay. He says he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She leans back and looks at him, perhaps a bit annoyed and sighs. Looking around she shrugs and says, “I’m a bit bored to be honest.”

He takes a sip of his drink. “Well that’s what the alcohol is for.”

“True. Although it tends to complicate things.” Leaning her elbow on the counter, she starts teasing a piece of her hair and turns towards him. Her other arm is resting against the side of her breast making them an unintended focal point towards the camera. Raising her eyebrows she says, “So what’s your deal?”

“Until proof of the contrary, I can be your best friend.” 

“Is that so? As a potential best friend, I have to ask, what are you doing here?”

“Specifically?”

“Specifically.”

“Maybe it was to accidentally meet you here.” She laughs and rolls her eyes. He tells her he’s just taking a break from work. Says it’s not really interesting what he does, but she presses anyway. 

“Advertising.”

“So you sell things?”

He says he sells ideals. The ideals of what people aspire to. What they want. Or what they need to be told to want. It’s a creative business, he says. Like an artist. An artist of want. And they do real art too, but not him.

“So you’re an idea man.”

Before the bartender can put his drink down on a napkin he grabs it and takes a huge swig to try to soothe his roasted tonsils. “Exactly.”

She crosses her legs, brushing her foot against his shin. “Well, Mr. Idea Man. What do _you_ want?”

Right now, he says, right now what he wants is to buy her another drink.

 “How drunk do you usually get women you’ve just met?” 

He leans his head in close to hers. “The drunker you are, the funnier I become. ABC did research.”

She smiles and sips on her martini glass. Pulling out the stick of olives, she places it in her mouth and it’s becoming quickly apparent that Annie knows more than she’s ever shown before about flirting and the full implementation of using props. Her eyes play over him for a second and she says, “You know, you never told me your name.”

“No I didn’t.” He stamps out his god-awful cigarette in an ashtray. “Name’s Don.”

She drags an olive off the little pink plastic stick into her mouth. “You’re a bit of a quick mover, aren’t you Don?” 

“When I see something I want,” he says and brushes his hand against hers, “Why wait?”

Her cheeks flush and she laughs. “I’m sure. My name is Elena.” 

“So what do you do, Elena, when you’re not being bored?”

Elena is a restaurant owner, she tells him. An upscale place. Trendy without being too pretentious. According to Elena, the restaurant business is always changing; she never knows what’s going to be popular or what kind of image it will have to take on next to survive. But it never truly changes, she says, not at its core, just what it presents to others. What it needs to be to fit in. Velveeta right now is indigenous regional cheese. Hazelnuts are imported European cobnuts.

She inherited the place from her father who rose to the rank of an important title in WWI. He was an underground freedom fighter in Switzerland during WWII and took down Nazi communication lines in ski resorts. Her mother was an existentialist writer he met in France. She was a communist and had a love affair with Camus and Sartre before inventing the electric pencil sharpener.

“That’s rather interesting.”

Not really, she says.

But to tell the truth, she says, she’s running away from it all. At least for tonight.

He orders another round and asks, “What are you running from?”

She starts sipping on her second or perhaps third or fourth drink. “Oh don’t get me started on that. Tell me more about you.”

The main character should never give too much away this early in the game. Especially when he’s hiding an angst ridden double life. Or triple life.

“Well, I've been reading the most amazing book.”

She raises her eyebrows. “What is it?”

 “It says that the future is already written. It's all there,” he says, turning the lighter in his hand, holding it with his thumb to his palm when he spreads his hand slightly forward to declare the revelation. “And the proof lies in premonitory dreams.”

They both look at the stage when someone in the band drops something, with a loud crash and a swear. Followed by an announcement they were taking a short break. Eyes back to the counter, she pushes the bottom of her glass sliding it back and forth on a cocktail napkin with one of her pearl beaded fingers. Thinking for a moment, she says, “Even dreams are bad news then.”

“Not always,” he says. “For instance, I had a dream that I would accidentally meet a beautiful woman who happened to be bored with her perfect straight laced life.” 

“A _beautiful_ woman, was it,” she says, and nods her to the side in false modesty. No matter how many times they say they get tired of it, women never tire of being told they’re beautiful. “I find that hard to believe.”

He says, “No, it’s true. It’s a dream I’ve been having for awhile. What do you think that means?”

She smiles and sways at him, bumping her arm against his and says, “Let me guess, you’re psychic?”

“No,” he says. “It’s the proof that dreams are windows to the future. That it was meant to be.”

Popping another olive in her mouth, she says, “Tell me something about you that isn’t a book or prophetic destiny.”

He tells her about growing up on a farm in Pennsylvania or Illinois or somewhere vaguely in that general area before knocking back the rest of his drink and changing the subject to something more interesting. “That dress is something else.”

She looks down at her layers of pouf and raises her eyes upwards at him and grins that way women do when they know they have you under their thumb. “You think?” 

He motions his hand. “Let me see the rest.”

Biting her lip she says, okay. Sure. She slides off the bar stool and does a turn around. Puts her hand on her hips and smiles with those glossy red lips. Her sweetheart bodice pushes her chest out while pulling her waist in. The skirt spilling down over her hips. It’s a complete display of what her Young Republican-esque high waisted skirts and shirt and cardigan combos selfishly hide. She leans in, her mouth to his ear and whispers, “I found it in my Bubbe’s closet. How cool is that?”

Turning her back to him, she straightens her legs and slightly pulls out her skirt, her head craning back feigning to look down towards the back of her legs but really looking at him and asks, “Are my seams straight?”

Camera pans down from white shoulder to red heels and he says, “I’ll say.”

 “This place is a bit loud and crowded,” she sighs and hops back in her seat, her string of white pearls bouncing against her neck. She spins around with her back to the counter and arcs her back pushing out her focal points. Tilting her head towards him she says, “Do you want to get out of here? I have a feeling you’re the opposite of boring.”

“I’m not the solution to your problem.” Lighting another cigarette and nailing it perfectly with dialogue. “I’m just another problem.”

“Probably,” she says grabbing her white sateen micro-purse and standing up. “But life is nothing but a series of problems.”

She says, “One more can’t hurt.”

He can’t argue with that.

“Come on,” she says holding out her hand. “Walk me to my room.”

Cool.

Cool cool cool.  
  
OOOO  



	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should mention that for the purpose of this story, Troy is no longer living in the apartment for whatever reason. Also, the rating has been bumped up.

In countless movies, there is an elevator scene. Even in _Mad Men_ there has been several scenes using the narrative device of an elevator. An elevator represents many things. An intimacy between its passengers. The isolation yet collective monotony we feel amongst strangers so close, all going in the same direction. Being trapped. The journey to something new. Or something familiar. An event that has been foreshadowed. An anticipation of two characters in an isolated closed environment and what will transpire. What they will reveal in such a setting. This is a form of symbolic anticipation since the sum of all of the different elements creates a feeling of tension.

In _Drive_ , the elevator scene is especially worth studying for any student of film. It symbolizes the finality of a love that couldn’t be. One that was torn apart from the outside in. One that left a character sacrificing everything for the sake of the other.

So there’s a tension inherent in the location. Of an elevator.

Even sometimes, maybe, it can show the tension in one character, one that as the elevator climbs up, the events that are to follow are getting closer and maybe there’s some doubt that creeps in. Or anxiety building up. Excitement throttled by a million ways something could go wrong.

The different elements that create tension.

Annie turns to him after the elevator door closes and says more than asks, “You’re sure you’re okay with this.”

I mean, you know.

Yeah, he knows. And yeah. He’s okay with it. For sure. Totally.

It’s not like this will be a major change in how they see each other forever or anything. Not like this could ruin everything and make her hate him. Make her realize she wants to leave. And he’d never see her again. No pressure here.

Only a million ways something could go wrong.

But that’s why Don is there because Don doesn’t care about that feely feelings, boner killing, panic inducing crap.

Don is a woman consuming, ass pounding pleasure machine.

Concentrate on looking down, take advantage of being way taller than her. And thank God for low cut things. Thank God for big boobs in and pushing out of low cut things. Extreme close up shot. Tight focus. Look at her lips and skin. The smell of her hair. And then, yeah. Let’s do this.

Abed’s existential crisis can come after he does.

Taking her hand in his, he places a soft kiss on the back of her hand. Turns her hand over and kisses the delicate inner wrist. He says, “Of course. Are you?”

She nods her head. “I really am.”

He moves against her making her take a step backwards. Pressing her against the faux blond wood paneled side of the elevator, he leans in against her. He brushes the back of his fingers down her cheek. And standing here in the elevator being lifted up, he kisses her, and the feeling of déjà vu creeps through him from the first time they kissed.

The feeling of everything about to change.

Just breathe in, and out.

 

OOOOOO

 

So how it started was, the thing is, is that Annie has a very specific way of doing dishes. First, you have to get the water to a temperature that’s very hot. But not hot enough to burn you. But almost. Once you feel if it goes any hotter you won’t be able to bear it, you’re there. You must use Dawn, the hand moisturizing kind, in quarter size dollops on each dish after rinsing them thoroughly. Then you use the long handled brush and scrub them until you can’t see anything and the plate is smooth. You don’t ever use the plastic mesh scrubby, that’s for cleaning the sink. If you use the scrubby, start over. Then you rinse again and place the dish in the drying rack.

You dry with a clean dish towel. But not the ones that hang on the oven door. Those are decorative. If you don’t get it dry enough or you let the dish completely air dry, then you need to rinse it again to get the spots off. The plates go in the top left cabinet in order: dinner plates on the bottom, followed by salad plates and finally saucers.

It got to the point where he’s not even allowed to do them, because he won’t get it right. But that doesn’t stop her from getting upset if he dumps a bunch of dishes in the sink.

He’s also no longer allowed to vacuum, put groceries away or fold towels. He doesn’t iron them. The towels. And as for sheets, well, you probably can imagine. The bathroom has little classy packaged French soap bars kept in the boxes and oils and diffusers he’s not supposed to touch. His olive bowl is gone. That’s not allowed anymore. The pot holders hanging on the fridge aren’t for using. A thousand other things she’s slowly squirreled in over the last year or so that are sequestered, forbidden, for looking not touching. Girly things.

Flowers. Centerpieces. Egyptian cotton bedding. Actually, those are nice. Toile contact paper. Sheers. Not called curtains, she said. Sheers. You know, functionless see through things. Slowly his apartment is turning into something from HGTV.

It’s not so much a home but an open house on an endless market.

She got brazenly bold one day and brought a bird home. As a surprise. One of those little blue ones in a pretty rounded wire cage to hang by a window. A subsequent meltdown ensued. Bird was taken back to the store. The cage stayed, though. He’s still not sure if she did that on purpose and she’s really a brilliant troll.

The cups are where he drew the line. Putting the coffee mugs behind the short glasses makes no logical sense. Their handles make it unsymmetrical and use up too much of the space to square footage ratio.  The larger plastic cups go in back, followed by the tall glass glasses, short glasses and _then_ coffee mugs. That’s how it always was before her and that’s how it will always be. Starting now.

Catching him emptying the cabinet for a third time in a week, she says, “Why do you keep doing this? The coffee mugs are taller than the short glasses, so how does the proper size order work if they’re _taller_?”

Their handles, he says. Stop moving them.

“No, you stop messing up my cabinet.” She pushes him out of the way and starts putting them back up, but he grabs her arm and shoves her aside. Gasping in righteous indignation she says, “I’m the one who washes them; I should be able to put them away how I see fit.”

He dramatically mimics her gasp a few times because he knows that just pisses her off. One by one he starts putting the cups back. The right way.

She tries to wedge by him but he slams his hand down on the counter blocking her with his arm. “What the hell is your problem, Abed?”

He leans his head forward looking down at her and says, “You took on the dish washing all on your own. You don’t get to use that as a power play here. This is my house too, not yours.”

Treading onto dangerous ground, he tells her she needs to stop disrupting his things.

“Your things?”

Yes.

“The glasses are your things.”

Technically, yes.

“Oh okay,” she says, her arms flailing, “what about you putting my sweaters in the washer on the hot cycle last month and ruining them when you _know_ I don’t want you touching my laundry? Or leaving the toilet seat up? Or using all the hot water to make a recreation of the _USS Dallas_ jumping out of the ocean in the bath tub when I had an appointment I wanted to shower before? But I can’t disrupt,” curling her fingers into quotations she says, “your things.”

He says, “It’s called an emergency blow, and I believe the water bill is paid by me.”

She makes a derisive snort. “You mean your dad pays it, don’t you? How would you know? Your dad and I handle all the finances for you. And what then, that makes me banned from having hot water? What do you want then, Abed? To install a coin operated slot to the faucets? Sure! Let’s do that.”

Another thing about Annie, is she has a very specific habit of using obnoxious gestures when she’s pissed. And at this point, pissed would probably be an understatement. Putting her hands out wide like she’s presenting something, the entire apartment, she shouts, “I guess we’ll just have _everything_ the Abed way, shrunken munchkin clothes, cold showers, me falling in the toilet and a completely jacked up glass cabinet!”

“I apologized for that but you keep bringing it up when you’re mad,” he says. “And don’t yell at me.”

“Of course I’m mad, my ass fell into a toilet!” Shaking her hand and leaning her head back in that ‘oh no you didn’t’ way, she says, “And if you can blow up at me over a pot of _noodles_ , I have every right to yell at you for risking my health and safety. I could have broken my pelvis or caught some disease you know.”

Tightening his jaw he says, “You threw those out when you were fully aware I wasn’t done and you know it.”

“Are you serious,” she says, “Really? You want to go down this road again? You left it cold on the stove and you were gone for an hour.”

He says, “So what do you want from me, Annie. I’ve had to adjust my entire life for you but it’s never enough.”

Redecorating.

Rearranging.

Disruption.

Troy was easier to live with. But then again, Troy would tend to go along with whatever Abed wanted so he wouldn’t get upset nor have his routines interfered with. Troy was the perfect complement to a control freak such as himself. Troy did not require much change. Troy was more passive. Annie, though. Annie is _not_ Troy.

She throws her hands up. “Well, I’m so freaking sorry I’ve inconvenienced your entire life, because as usual, it’s all about you. Enjoy your idiotic system of placing glasses.” She shoves into him with her shoulder as she walks on by him. Turning around she shouts, “And y _ou’re_ the one who asked _me_ to live with you in the first place!”

Putting the cups back and not looking at her, he says, “Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t have.” Storming down the hall she goes into her room and slams the door. From behind it, he hears her scream, “YOU ASS!”

Well, that went well.

Perhaps Sheldon said it best when he asked the quandary, “Women: delightfully mysterious or batcrap crazy?” But you know what, it was his place before she was there. She has no right to take over everything. To tell him what he can or cannot do. What he can touch or not. She has her own room. He can live on buttered noodles the rest of his natural life. He has no need for her in the kitchen cooking or cleaning or touching anything of his. One pot, one bowl, one fork. That’s all he needs. And if a man wants to leave something on the stove, he should be able to. If a man wants to recreate a classic movie scene in his own bathtub, who is she to say no? And if a man needs his glasses in a specific order ―

Alright, well, maybe he is an ass.  

He didn’t mean to make her to cry. And he did leave the toilet seat up that one night. And a few more after that. And he may have gone over the line there at the end. He’s not even sure why he said that. Actually he knows, but like all men, he doesn’t like admitting he would say something he didn’t really mean, even if it feels true in the blinding rage of the moment, specifically to be a hurtful bitch. Filter, filter.

Walking to her door he takes a deep breath and knocks lightly on it. “Annie.”

“Go. Away.”

“Annie. I’m really sorry.”

From behind the door, her voice cracked from crying, she says, “Go away, Abed. Leave me alone.”

And he says, “Okay. But I’m glad I asked you to live here. I’ll leave you alone now.”

He walks back to the kitchen and stares at the cabinet. One by one, he takes the glasses out and puts them back up the Annie way. It may be wrong, but he can live with it. Maybe. He’ll try.

According to Dr. Phil, there are two choices, “do you want to be happy or do you want to be right?” Both would be ideal, but apparently when it comes to women, this is a false dichotomy. Maybe it was good Annie made him watch it that one day. As insufferable as her TV choices are, some can be enlightening and teach him things. Like ways to navigate the confusion and difficulty of this empathy thing. And so he watched it every day after that, took notes, tracked patterns; watched couple after couple hate each other, say terrible things and tear their families apart over petty power struggles and uncontrolled anger. It reminded him of some things he’d rather not think about. But it doesn’t have to be that way. According to Dr. Phil.

And right now, it’s reminding him of what just went on. And the other passive aggressive power competitions that have crept up. Although, this one wasn’t quite so passive. But more so than the pot on the stove incident.

He doesn’t have a monopoly on being a control freak. But neither does she. So, maybe, probably they both should work on that more, but he has to work on himself first. He knows he can be difficult to live with and Annie has a ton more patience and understanding than most people have with him. And he shouldn’t take that for granted. He’s had to adjust, but maybe her more so. Stepping out of himself and projecting what he feels, filtering it through a reverse point of view, he can sort of understand that now. Although it’s a hit and miss system, he’s still working on it. But he shouldn’t have said what he said to her.

Control and order is soothing, but too much is a bad thing, it makes you get angry and say and do hurtful things. And her being happy makes him happy. That’s more important than him being right and her being sad. Otherwise it might turn into a white line down the middle of the apartment situation. Or worse, her leaving.

He finishes organizing the cabinet and sits down to watch TV. After two episodes of _Family Guy_ and an episode of _Breaking Bad_ , Annie still hasn’t come out of her room. Getting up to make something to eat, he takes out a pot and fills it with water and puts it on the stove. He hesitates for a moment but walks over to Annie’s door and lightly knocks. He asks her if she wants something to eat. She doesn’t answer, so he goes back to the kitchen and watches his pot. Although they say a watched pot never boils, it actually does. And then you can watch it bubble. It’s kind of cool.

He hears a floorboard creak behind him and turning around, he sees Annie standing in the kitchen entrance leaning against the wall. Her hair is pulled up in a ponytail and she’s changed into her long cotton nightgown, the one with little duckies on a blue background. She says, “Hey.”

And he says, “Hey.”

She walks into the kitchen slowly and stands next to him. Neither one says anything for awhile, both of them staring at the simmering pot until she touches his arm and says, “I’m sorry, too.”

It’s cool, he tells her. He fixed the cabinet.

“That isn’t important.”

“But you wanted it fixed.”

“No,” she says. “I mean, I did, but maybe I was being a bit too overbearing. Even if it is the right way,” she says, “it shouldn’t matter if it’s making you feel like it’s not your place too.”

So it wasn’t the cabinet. Apparently his system still needs more tuning. Of course, he’s still not sure how the cabinet lead to asses in the toilet, noodles and how these things always end up thirty stages detached. Raising his eyebrows and pulling the corner of his mouth he says, “I guess we haven’t been doing very well in the control freak department.”

“No, I guess not.” She lays her head on his arm and reaches around him, her hand rubbing circles over his back. “But we’ll get there, right?”

He says, “Together.”

And she says, “Together.”

“Hey Abed.”

Looking down at her he says, “What.”

And reaching a hand to his face, she in her duckie jammies, she hops up on her tippy toes and kisses him on his lips.

So that’s how it started.

 

OOOOOO

 

She points down to the right and tells him her room is that way. Down pink wallpapered walls, past a countless number of small doorways only found in old buildings, there’s a long black sideboard with a wide squatty bronze vase that has sprays of flora and sprigs of green spilling out of it. Above it is a large mirror in a carved faux-gold frame hanging on the wall.

According to _Applications of Cinematic Architecture_ , an empty hallway is a perfect setting to get a dynamic composition. The long symmetrical lines are perfect for framing shots. With a mirror in your shot, there can be an analogy of the character being watched, their actions, emotions reflected back at them. In a hallway, you have the juxtaposition of an enclosed pathway with an endless view of your life or self reflected before you or behind you. You can only take one direction.

A mirror can represent characters’ double lives, their hidden selves, their fractured identities. Mirrors can represent the limit of the characters’ understanding, the idea of being lost in illusions and projections. For the viewer, they offer up a possibility of something else, like two characters afraid to confront what’s staring them in the face.

Point is, mirrors can pretty much mean everything you need them to.

Cut to a long shot of the hallway, Ms. Elena von Annie is already shoved up on the sideboard, her hand grasping her little sateen bag as she tries to hold on to his back. Her little legs dangling off the edge as he lifts her all the way up. His lips glide over hers as he runs his hands up her side and across her chest palming what he can through her dress. Reaching up and entwining his fingers in her hair, he pulls her head back and keeps it there as he runs his mouth down her neck. Her shoulder blades are knocking the mirror against the wall every time he presses against her but she seems to not notice or care and hey, it looks sturdy, so he doesn’t stop.

His other hand reaches down and bends her leg high up onto his hip. There’s so much puffiness to the skirting of her dress, it takes forever for his hand bunch up and through the layers to find skin. He slides his hand up her thigh from behind her knee, over her stockings and garter clips and under the edge of her panties. Her other leg wraps around his other hip to balance and he pulls it up onto his other hip. He presses his fingers down further between her open legs and this is quickly developing into a Jason Statham and Amy Smart situation.

“Abed,” she gasps grabbing his arm and trying to pull his hand away. “Abed, not out here.”

For sure, he could have done it right then and there regardless, but she was probably right. Those kinds of scenes tend to have a sassy maid come walking down the hall out of nowhere yelling to take it into your room or throwing their hands up and shouting some kind of incomprehensible Spanish. Slipping his hand out from under her skirt, he helps her hop down off the sideboard and grabs his hat that fell on the floor while she slips her foot into a shoe that got knocked off. “Come on,” she says and like a drunk on wobbly legs she makes her way down the hall to her room. When she gets to the door she opens her purse and drops it and then picks it up again, fumbling for her key before wiggling it into the lock of a little gold doorknob.

Pushing the door open she stumbles a bit inside and he flips the light on and closes the door shut behind him. It’s a rather tiny room with more pink on the walls. This place really was made for Annie. There’s a double size bed covered with a puffy apple red comforter and a small TV anchored to the wall. This will work.

She’s not even got her purse on the table when he grabs and nearly slams her against the wall and kisses her. His mouth moving over her neck and shoulders, she pushes his jacket down his back and he shakes it off his arms letting it fall to the floor.

“Wait, wait,” she says out of breath, his hands back under skirt. “Do you have― _you know_?”

Have what?

She sighs. _“_ Pro― _tection_.”

She goes, “If not, I have some in my overnight bag. I picked up three different kinds there were so many choices―”

“No, no.” He lets her go and points his finger with the international symbol for ‘wait a sec’ and reaches into his crumpled jacket on the floor. An ambitiously long strip of condoms rolls out as he holds it up in front of her. Being a sex magnet like Don Draper, you can never be too safe.

He tosses them on the nightstand and turning back to her he runs his hands up her back looking for a zipper or buttons or something and finding nothing but the stiff boning of her bodice. He asks, “How does this thing come off?”

And she says, “You pull a zipper down.”

She lifts her arm and points. “On the side.”

It takes about five minutes to work the zipper down. It feels more like five hours. “Oh God, don’t rip anything,” she keeps saying every time the zipper hitches and he’s trying his hardest not to rip the goddamn thing, but the fluffy fabric keeps getting caught and the zipper is about a thousand years old and he’s about to force it down when finally it gives way down to her hip.

He helps her navigate out of the halter top and pulls down her crinoline while she holds up the skirting of the dress but it keeps getting caught on her garter belt. He yanks it down and it comes free, then she carefully squeezes her ass out of the top of the bodice being sure not to snag anything on her stockings or belts. It never took this long on TV, but then they always cut to black for this part. Or they just don’t bother to get undressed which he’s wondering why they didn’t just do that since it’s incredibly hot anyway. Nothing is quite as cock blocking as the logistics of women’s clothing.

“Are you sure you didn’t rip anything?” He shakes his head. He probably didn’t. Maybe.

He unbuckles his belt and in two seconds he’s undone the most complicated part of his outfit.

After the struggle of man against dress, he watches her as she stands there and it could be something out of a _Men’s Health_ photo shoot. Black half corset bra, matching frilly panties over her black garter belt with poinct conté lace, non-elastic stockings clipped to her mid-thigh. He’s not sure if he’s feeling love for her spectacular body framed so perfectly or for her complete commitment to period correct wardrobe.

Yes, let’s do this.

Funny thing about Annie, she can be so bold and desperate to be included in the weirdness, and for sure, all of this has to be classified as weird. But here in the room, her dress pulled down to her feet, her hair coming undone and spilling onto her shoulders, she starts crawling under the sheet still in bra and stockings and garter, pulling it up around her. Nothing but her little head sticking out from under the tent of stiff white hotel sheet.

He points out, “Elena wouldn’t do that.”

And she says, “How do you know?”

Looking confused, he goes, “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she says. She curls up and looks away and says, “I’m not ready for you to see me. It’s embarrassing, okay?”

So she changed her mind. Or maybe not. But nothing is more complicated than trying to read women when it comes to sex and you wouldn’t believe how insanely that can explode in your face. Now, through deductive reasoning, if he didn’t want someone seeing him naked, and you generally need to be naked in at least on the bottom half to have sex, that would mean therefore _she_ doesn’t want to. And he already saw her almost naked, he made a full touchdown in the hallway, and she still dived for cover. So. Projection filtered through, and he’s probably somewhere in the ballpark of none shall pass. Probably.

But when it comes to her, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Maybe he wasn’t the only one worried.

There are only a million things that could go wrong.

That’s a wrap.

“Okay,” he says. “Cool.”

He picks up his hat and jacket, then her dress off the floor and lays it across the back of a nearby chair. He looks back to her and says, “This is the coolest thing anyone has done for me.” And he turns to the door.

“Abed,” she nearly shouts, “where are you going? You are _not_ leaving me like this.”

“Scene’s over,” he says. “So, I better go.”

“Don’t you,” she makes a face that is lost on him and hesitates for a second, “You know, I thought we were―don’t you want to have… _sex_?”

And from someone who can’t say ‘penis’, that must have been damn near impossible to actually say out loud.

His face and neck still smeared with her lipstick, he says, “I do like sex.” He points to her and says, “But, I like you more and you said you weren’t ready.” He raises an eyebrow and he says, “Plus, girls sometimes get upset after the fact when they notice I’m not what they want.”

Placing his hat on and buckling his belt, he says, “I’d much rather be Ryan Gosling getting nothing than Oscar Isaac destroying everything.”

He says, “You’re very important to me.”

Her shoulders slump and she makes a sighing sound. Patting the bed she says, “Oh, sit down already.”

“I don’t think ―,” he starts but she cuts him off and yells at him to sit the hell down, slapping the bed. He quickly sits on the edge of the bed and leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. He takes his hat back off and says, “Alrighty.”

 “You’re important to me too, Abed. I mean, do you know how much trouble it was to pull this all together? I’m sorry I confused you. I just ― it’s hard for me. I’ve only done this once before, and that was a nightmare. Also, it was in the dark.” She pauses a moment and fidgeting under the sheet she says, “I wouldn’t have done all this, and brought you up here if it wasn’t what I wanted.”

He entwines his fingers leaning over and says, “I thought about that. And I realized that it’s one thing having drinks, maybe making out a bit, thinking about it.” He looks back at her and then back to the floor and says, “But it’s another when you’re naked. It means things will change forever.”

 “I know,” she says. “But it’s a change I wanted. And I thought you did too.”

He never had a relationship before. Not like a relationship-relationship. A few intangible wisps of intimacy here and there, an infatuation or two, but nothing he could ever say was real.

The truth is, the last girl he loved was his mother.

Living with Annie has been the closest he’s ever been to a woman and this is all getting very real very quickly.

“I did,” he says. Turning his head he looks at her over his shoulder and he says, “I mean, I still do. I just don’t want to hurt you. To screw up what was working.”

He says, “Things will change for us.”

“I just wanted this to be perfect, and I still managed to screw it up.” Her lips start trembling and her red smeared mouth goes into a frown as she sobs, “I’m so, so drunk.”

He raises his eyebrows and he leans his head back down. He rubs his temple with his thumb and forefinger of one hand, and says, “Me too.”

Before he left to meet her, after he had gotten dressed and been transformed, he went into Annie’s room and sat on the edge of her bed. Looking up at the walls, all her awards and perfectly symmetrical frames of pictures and pink hearts and girly frills, he wondered if he should go.

A sitcom couple is doomed the minute the unresolved sexual tension becomes resolved. Especially if it happens too early in the overall storyline. Once the will they or won’t they is answered, more or less, things unravel quickly. The audience generally loses interest in them, because everything follows a known pattern after that. Characters start acting in ways you feel are off or wrong. A spark is lost.

Because nothing is as good as you can imagine it.

If House and Cuddy didn’t get together, maybe the show wouldn’t have gone to crap like a tire on fire rolling down a hill. House was never a character that could have a steady or conventional relationship. But they got together and tried to make it work. But Cuddy left. She loved him but she had to leave him. She couldn’t accept him for who he was, but who she wanted him to be. When you really don’t understand or accept someone as they come, it will all fall apart.

Sometimes love just isn’t enough.

 

OOOOOO

 

Twenty years ago or so, picture this little kid. This little lanky scrawny bird of a kid. Standing in the school counselor’s office. This pitiful kid in his green Scooby Doo t-shirt and yellow hooded jacket that was a little too big for him, tear stained dirty face, waiting for one of his parents to pick him up. Again.

It was always the Mama who came to pick up the kid.

This little weirdo kid no one wanted.

The teacher would tell Mama that she needed to do something about the weirdo. That she couldn’t teach her class and she was getting fed up with him. The school couldn’t deal with kids who have behavioral problems because of improper parenting, they would say.

So the Mama took the weirdo to doctor after doctor, because nothing she did worked and no one could help. No one could fix her broken child who was slipping through her fingers.

"There's still something wrong with him," Mama would say to the doctor. "Can't you do anything?"

And every time the doctor would say, "We'll run some more tests."

“We’ll try a treatment,” they would say.

Up on the paper covered table they'd try to put him on. Mama would try to pick him up and sit him on her lap. Sometimes it was in a dim room with a really low table next to a big machine that looked like a space ship. Sometimes it was in a really bright room with a table shaped like a cross. Mama would grab and force him up but he'd scream and claw and try to get down. She would beg and plead and tell him to be good. Just this once, be good for Mama. Just sit with me. Mama would try to pin him up there and a nurse would help while he kicked and screamed and they would slam him down when he'd kick and scratch them. She would look at the doctors and say, "You see what I mean? Even something this simple."

They would take over for Mama, one on each arm and leg and one across his shoulders and chest. One more would stick him with something sharp in his arm that hurt. He'd hear Mama say from the background through his shrieks in Polish, It'll be okay. It's okay, baby. A cold wetness would creep up his arm and then he couldn't hear anything and then there was nothing.

Four or five times they did this. He can’t quite remember how many times now.

But the treatments didn’t fix the broken kid.

Each time there was a new thing that could possibly wrong. Something that suggested another abnormality. Nothing that would could be known for sure, but the symptoms presenting ended with a diagnosis of a host of things that were wrong and Not Otherwise Specified.

Everyone so desperate to label and categorize the abnormal weirdo. The DSM has specific criteria to put you into certain slots. If you have delusions and hallucinations for a month or more, you might be put in the schizoaffective disorder slot. But only if you have delusions or hallucinations that are present for a minimum of two weeks, without major mood symptoms during an episode. So if it's only a week and you had a mood swing, you get bumped into another slot. And then another. You're a day and symptom short of something else, you might get thrown into a different subsection altogether.

Everyone, the entire culture is Obsessive Compulsive. Fixated on labeling, categorizing and micromanaging and dissecting. Defining and deciding what's normal, what isn’t. Weeding out God's rejects.

But despite the labels, it still never fixed the flawed, damaged, weirdo kid.

So Mama kept taking him back and she would say, "There's still something wrong with him."

She'd say, "I don't know what to do with him."

Mama would cry, "Can't you help?"

And right in front of this weirdo, like he's not even there, like he was too stupid to understand, they would say, "He's probably going to have this the rest of his life. You should prepare for the large burden it will become as he gets older."

One nurse patted Mama on the back as they were leaving and said, "It's okay. Have you and your husband considered a psychiatric facility?"

And Mama put him in the back seat and sat in the car and cried more.

At home, Mama would yell and Daddy would yell while the weirdo freak sat in his room and banged his head against the wall. The yelling never stopped.

Each time they went after the tests and treatments didn’t work, Mama was given pills to give to the defective kid to try to make him normal. He was taken to people in doctor coats or with badges hanging from their necks at least two times a week who would try to talk to him, analyze him, watch him and then he'd have a new thing wrong with him and they'd give Mama more pills.

Mama would try to get him to swallow the pills but she and Daddy would have to hold him down and give it to him like you'd give it to a cat. This was stopped when he bit Daddy’s hand so hard it needed a stitch and soon she started sneaking it in his food.

Week after week, the weirdo got weirder, or was so tired he could barely move, or everything hurt.

But he never was fixed.

Then one day, they just never went back. There were no more pills, no more doctors and no more pain. The Mama didn’t know what to do anymore. The Daddy was always working. And the weirdo was still the kid no one wanted.

And one day, Mama came into the weirdo's room and sat down on the floor and brought a book about a squirrel whose baby squirrel was sick. Something was wrong with the baby. The squirrel calls Tree Wizards to try to help the baby, but there's nothing that could be done.

And even though he wouldn't sit next to her or look like he paid any attention, he listened to the story Mama read.

Her voice cracked as she read about how the squirrel loved her baby so much and was angry nothing could be done. Because she loved it so much. This wasn't what the squirrel had planned for her life with the baby. Winter was coming and she would be separated from her precious baby and it hurt her more than anything. But the squirrel had no choice but to leave the baby behind.

And when he looked up this book when he was bigger, it turned out the book was actually about the baby dying. It was a book to help children with the death of a sibling. Only Mama had changed it a bit. In the room, reading to him, she was reading him a book about death. And it wasn’t until he was a lot bigger and the Mama had sent him another story on a card at Christmas that he understood.

Mama closed the book, kissed this reject of God’s head and told him goodnight.

Because sometimes love isn't enough.

Sometimes, there is no justification, it just is.

And the next day, there was no more Mama.

 

OOOOOO

 

Sitting on the bed, sniffling and dabbing under her eyes with the sheet, trying to keep her thick black lashes from smearing off, Annie says, “Wait, what girls?”

“Two,” he says. It was really three, but he heard somewhere oral doesn’t count. “It’s not that hard to hook up at a kegger, Annie. Even for me. “

“Oh,” she tilts her head and looks across the room, “Okay.” It’s a look of disappointment and maybe a bit of jealousy, but he’d never be able to tell. “And that’s not what I meant.”

And one girl at his dad’s falafel shop, he says. Which you wouldn’t think would happen, but she was a part time summer employee and took a liking to him and there was a lot of downtime in the late afternoons. She was older than him, and she stops him right there.

“Abed,” she sighs. “I _really_ don’t need details.”

“Sorry.”

 Anyway, she points out, what they did in the hallway before that was way more than making out. And although that was true, that doesn’t necessarily mean he expects her to give him anything more. Not that he doesn’t want it, but not if she doesn’t. It’s pretty simple really, but logic is lost on most others.

Sticking to canon, Don Draper would have ripped off the sheet and taken her in a moment without a second thought. But that’s because he never really cared about anyone but himself. He didn’t love those women. They were just toys, a conquest, sexual objects, a way to self medicate. A hook up at a kegger. He didn’t have anything to lose. Because it was only sex.

The first time he kissed her, not as Han, but as himself, as awkward Abed, standing in the same old kitchen just watching the same old pot boil with her, everything had changed. And maybe it did for her too. Nothing is static. Nothing will never not change. Not even Abed.

And they slowly found themselves on a new path. Together.

And either he moves towards Annie, or it’s away from her.

The future keeps coming at you. Whether you’re ready for it or not. Nothing is stable. Nothing will self-sustain.

So he had to choose, sitting on her bed, surrounded by pink and purple and unicorns. He had to choose whether it was worth risking taking this step. He thought of what he would feel if she left without him ever even trying. He thought that perhaps he wasn’t trusting in Annie when he really had no reason not to. All he was doing was prophetically dreaming a future based in a past long detached. A self-fulfilling prophecy. So maybe, whatever this all was, wasn’t a progression to an escapable end but continuing what they had started. To something good. Something that could be great, even. Away from the mirror down that long hallway.

You can only choose one direction.

Sometimes you have to trust in those you love, even when you feel it’s impossible, and believe that it will be okay. That they love you for you and you alone. No matter what. And will never leave.

Because sometimes love is enough.

She moves to the edge of the bed and sits next to him. Dangles her short legs and stretches her toes from her feet in and out. Annie looks at him and says, “So, I’ve been thinking, it’s like a vehicle.”

He wonders how he missed the conversational shift to cars and asks what she means.

Sitting straight up and putting on her typical smiling, bouncy school girl I-know-everything-face, only incredibly contrasted with her being half naked and holding a sheet to cover her breasts she says, “Ok, a _vehicle_ is a medium through which something is transmitted, expressed, or accomplished.”

She puts her hand around his forearm that’s resting on his thigh and says, “So how you use TV and movies and personas, they’re your _vehicle_ ,” she keeps putting emphasis on the word for some reason, and squeezing his arm she says, “To connect. It’s your way of expressing what you’re feeling in a way you can understand.”

She shrugs and runs her hand over his back. “So if those girls didn’t accept or understand that, then so what?”

In the end, it comes down to: Don Draper is an archetype. His actions, his mannerisms, his entire life follows a specific set of rules and narrative. In Don Draper’s world, everyone within it makes sense; everyone speaks the same language as Don does.

In Don Draper, or Han Solo, or Gregory, or Inspector Spacetime; he understands what to do. How to step outside. How to express. How to connect.

Being more than an observer.

And maybe it’s not completely accessible to her. But she understands.

She always has.

Putting his hand over hers he says, “You’re a good friend, Annie.”

 “I wouldn’t tell you that if I didn’t mean it,” she nudges him. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s okay if you don’t.”

So here is his out. The moment of no return or the moment of retreat. He looks at her. And yeah, the truth was, aside from his mother, the only girl he’s loved is Annie. And he realizes that not returning to what was, to face change instead of trying to control and resist it, maybe it won’t be so hard. As long as it’s with her, together.

Breathe in, then out.

He pauses a minute and says, yeah. He really does.

 

OOOOOO

It was one afternoon watching TV, him shoveling _Lucky Charms_ into his mouth while Annie was off busy bodying in the kitchen. This was months ago, when just the concept of going past second base was still strictly a nighttime or in the shower thought. Walking towards him drying her hands on a towel she asked him what he’s watching.

 _Batman_. Starting with Michael Keaton. Skipping over the George Clooney and Val Kilmer ones for obvious reasons. Need to do a complete recap before the new one comes out.

She nodded and said, “Cool, cool.”

“Hey Abed.” She said, “I’ve been thinking.”

He took a bite of cereal and said, “About what.”

His birthday. If he wants to do something special.

He shrugged and goes, “Cake would be cool.”

Carrot cake. With cream cheese frosting. Or maybe cream cheese frosting on another kind of cake. Apple? No, that would probably be gross. So, carrot cake.

Cocking her head and smiling, she said, “ _No_ , I was thinking like, maybe we should do something together.”

Like what.

Sitting on the arm of his chair she started nervously tapping her fingers on the back of it. “Well, maybe going to a nice hotel,” she said.

Other than making a series of connected room blanket forts, he couldn’t really think of why that would be a good venue. “I’m not sure what we could all do there.”

“No,” she said. “Just you and me.”

In a hotel.

“Yes.”

Turning his head away from the TV looking up towards her, he said, “Just to clarify, you’re implying sex here, right?”

Her head looking like it was going to pop from embarrassment, sighing she said, “Yes Abed, that’s what I’m implying.”

She jumps off his chair and sits into the one next to him, she put her hand out and squeezed his forearm and said, “But only if you want to, it’s okay if you don’t. I just thought it would be ― nice.”

Hitting the pause button he thought for a moment. He spun his chair to face her and said, “No, I want to. I really want to. And it is the next step.” He just wasn’t expecting it while watching _Batman_. Or eating _Lucky Charms_. Actually, he didn’t know how he expected it. Either way, he learned what having a heart attack and a boner simultaneously felt like.

A big smile across her face, she squeezed his arm again and said, “Really?”

He grinned and put his hand over hers. “Yeah. Really.”

She hopped up out of her chair and stepped behind his. She leaned down and hugged him over the back of the chair and said, “Just leave everything to me.” She kissed him on the crown of his head before running off to no doubt obsessively plan every detail for the next three months.

Okay.

So, sex with Annie.

Cool.

Cool cool cool.

 

OOOOO

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sitting on the bed, him with Annie, she gets a smile on her face and says, “Good.” She clears her throat, takes a breath. In then out. Smoothes her face. Getting into that serious actress mode. Squeezing then patting his arm she says, “Alright, we can get back on track here. Maybe we’ll try something else.”

She thinks for a minute and says, “Okay, you could be Robert Redford, lovingly wash my hair while quoting poetry to me in the wilds of Africa?”

He just kinda looks at her. “No.”

She has a lot of ideas. Oddly detailed ideas from oddly similar movies.

After she finds her inner strength and self, traveling through India and Italy, they meet each other in Bali and find passion and true love. Or he could be a mysterious luminous vampire who is drawn to her and they end up in a whirlwind of passion and danger. Or he could be a Zach Efron Marine who was convinced a picture of her saved his life, so he tracks her down and love and passion ensues. 

Unfortunately, all her ideas are terrible.

No. No. And no.

They have a system worked out. Twice a week, Annie gets to pick the movie. Whatever she wants. He gets no input or say in it. She doesn’t watch as much as he does, so it’s more than fair. You might even say it to be grossly in his favor. But then, you don’t realize what she puts in the Netflix queue. What he’s forced to endure in silence.

She made him watch _Eat Pray Love_. The extended cut. With special features.

It had. Special. Features. _Eat Pray Love_ did.

Because it wasn’t long and special enough.

Now if that isn’t _Everything I Do, I Do it For You_ ― other than taking an arrow for her ― what else could there possibly be.

But if you think that’s bad, when Troy lived there he had to not only watch these things, but listen to both of them sniffling and emotionally emoting. Troy will never admit he cried like a toddler with a skinned knee over _Sex in the City 2._ And _Never Say Never_. And a trailer to something with Mandy Moore in it. But he did. A lot.

And on that same note, just _how much_ chick flick is Zach Efron in? At least watch good chick flick. _Dirty Dancing_. _Ghost_. The classics. Don’t see Mr. Efron effortlessly mastering the craft of snazzily dancing, making Demi Moore famous, then stomp kicking ass in a bar now, do you.

“Okay, okay, I know. How about this,” she says. “I _know_ you’ve seen this.” Still right next to him, she bounces up on her knees. She keeps the white sheet pressed to her chest, cocks her head loosely to the side, and starts talking like the all too common slutty frat girl character that always gets killed in horror movies. You know how they are, in a way that makes you not really feel bad they’re getting chainsawed, but you do appreciate the gratuitous boob shots. “Hey, we could have premarital sex? I _loooove_ premarital sex.”

And even though this is from a satire movie, and she’s being utterly ridiculous, and he might be feeling some embarrassment by proxy, it comes off more arousing than you’d think.

But that’s Annie for you.

So before she goes any further he cuts her off and points out, “The scene that comes afterwards kind of kills the mood. Actually, that entire movie kills a lot of moods.”

“Oh.” She sinks back down with the realization of how terrible that movie actually was. “Yeah, I didn’t exactly think that one through too well. Sorry.”

“That’s ok,” he says. “You tried. I think sticking to our pre-failing attempts might be more what works here. Unless you want me to beat you to death with a co-ed in a sleeping bag. Which I don’t think I would have the physical strength to do. I also don’t have a silver hockey mask from the future. Not here anyway.”

She sighs, “Abed, just ― before I pass out.”

She leans forward to look at him and sees his lipstick smeared face and laughs as she tries to rub it off with her thumb. He gently takes her hand in his and he kisses the soft pads of her fingers. “I think I know,” he says. Rising to his feet, he tells her to get back up onto the bed. His posture is relaxed and fluid, his voice low and inflected. Entire demeanor changed and transformed in a second. He stands over her and looks down, she’s still the blushing school girl she tries so hard to be and not be at the same time. Pulling at the knot in his tie, he says, “Turn the lights off.”

Staring back at him she scooches back, pulling the sheet up to her chin. She looks away trying to hide her face with the sheet balled up around her small hands. “Okay,” she says wrapping it around herself like a toga, holding it up carefully as she stumbles a bit to the light switch.

He walks over to the window and pulls the big pink drapes open, flooding the room with the blue and grey light of the moon and street lamps below.

“That’s letting a lot of light in still,” she says.

So he pulls them in some.

She says, “No, more.”

So he pulls them in a bit more until there’s just a razor thin beam stretched out wide over the floor and foot of the bed, against the door on the opposite side of the room. Everything goes black for a moment as his eyes adjust to the dungeon lighting conditions she wants.

Little more, she says.

 “I need to see what I’m doing at least a little okay.” He pulls off his tie walking back to the bed and waggling his eyebrows, he deeply says, “It’ll be worth it.”

It’s really more like not wanting to slam your shin or toe into a side table or chair and subsequently crying like a bitch, or having her knee him in the face or groin, or having her break his nose with her pelvis, or him splitting her lip with his elbow. Safety first.

He rises up on each leg and lowers down as he pushes his shoes off. He raises each of his wrists up and undoes the cuff links and lays them on the side table next to the alarm clock. It’s digital, which is an anachronistic travesty and will have to be cut out. On the other hand, it’s one in his favor.

While loosening his collar he kneels forward onto the bed, the mattress barely sinking under his boney knees. He walks forward on his knees until he’s kneeling right in front of her. He places an arm right alongside her, leaning close, pushing her body down under his. She’s still got the sheet tied up in her hands in a death grip, his knees on either side of her pulling it taught and dragging it down with him, inch by inch, with each move forward.

Leaning down, his wiry body hovering over her, he brushes the back of his hand against her cheek. He almost kisses her but his lips just brush against hers in a close up shot and he says, “Close your eyes.”

It’s alright, he tells her. You can do it.

“Annie,” he says. He hooks a finger around the top of the sheet and starts tugging it down, out of her little fist. “This is a give and take type thing.”

It’s not really for him. Okay, maybe it is. A bit. But continuing to work on this control freak issue, Annie needs to see it’s not so bad to let herself be vulnerable more often. And sometimes she’s going to need a little help to just let go. To enjoy herself being enjoyed. To try to remove that fear of failure.

He tells her she doesn’t have to do anything. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. Because he can. Because he wants to. Even if he were just lie right here with her, he could prove and know he can give happiness and love to someone else.

Annie’s whole life people have been telling her she isn’t good enough, that she needs to be better, faster, smarter. To be little Ms. Perfect, to never fail. Never act childish and always follow the rules. Never do anything on the fly because that means you’re unprepared and that means you might do something wrong. And considering her one and only sexual experience was a complete failure by her own words, that mantra probably tattooed her brain for good.

But slowly, he wants to see her get to the life philosophy of, yeah, I might not know what the hell I’m doing, I might not win every time, and I might do something that you find no value in ― but I’m going to do it anyway. Because I want to. My whole life is not an idealistic expectation of constant perfection and one-upmanship. And that’s okay.

And I don’t care what anyone thinks.

Deal with it.

But in baby steps.

In the bed, her body goes a little stiff underneath him and her breath is shallow, and even in the dim light he can see her eyes are scrunched shut making her face look like she’s preparing for a root canal rather than about to be worn as a hat. There’s one idea, it was on standby as backup ammo in case Don’s particular alpha male aggression didn’t work out in certain instances. It’s always important to have a fall back persona. Even if it’s from something you hate. Leaning on his elbow, his face close to hers, he says, “You know,” slowly combing her hair away from her face through his fingers he says, “I wrote you 365 letters. I wrote you every day for a year.”

And then, like she had just been told there was a box of puppies and kittens and baby rabbits nearby, her scrunched up face goes smooth and mouth adoring, sweet Disney princess eyes open, she says, “Oh, Abed.” Placing her one hand that isn’t in a losing battle with her shield de sheet gently to his face, she runs her fingers up through his hair tracing around his ear. “You really watched it?”

“Yes,” he says, bringing his lips to her ear he whispers, “You left it in the DVD player and the cable was out. But it actually wasn’t out, just a cord got loose. It’s still not out.”

He slides his mouth over hers and he’s not sure whether he’s himself, Don or Ryan Gosling or some unholy sexual powerhouse mixture of the three, but whatever it is, it’s working. Watching a terrible chick flick was apparently the best form of seduction he could’ve done.

Cool.

Her hands are over his back and through his hair and his knee is pressing between her legs and things are quickly getting awesome. This is where it would generally fade to black for Mad Men, it’s only on basic cable. Unlike HBO or Cinemax that can show pretty much the full to do, AMC can’t get away with that. This isn’t Omega House or Little Finger’s joint.

But this is his episode after all, and BluRay releases almost always have unrated content that had to be cut out in editing. Director’s cut. The commentary will be epic.

She wraps her arms behind his neck and they roll onto their sides as both sets of hands attack his shirt, he unbuttoning while she pulls it up out of his pants. Her hand slips down in little awkward touch-and-feels, groping around the front of his waistband and she misses his shirt and blissfully grabs a little lower. He takes a sharp breath through his teeth and ― for reasons unknown ― she instantly lets go and says, “Was that alright?”

Why would she even do such a thing.

“Yes, yeah ― yes,” he says, grabbing her hand and placing it back, “and for future reference, that’s not something you ever need to ask.” Popping the last button of his shirt he says, “The answer will always be yes.”

“Okay, sorry, sorry.”

He hears her take a breath make a little nervous laugh and suddenly feels her hand slide right back down and over and up. And back down. Her fingers glide around a bit, taking their time. For Annie, this just wasn't foreplay, but a field trip to the male Exploratorium. Interactive introductive techniques. Tactile learning.

And if Annie loves anything, it's learning.

And winning.

They both look down nearly bumping foreheads when faced with the obstacle of a waistband. Each one pulls a belt loop down and he kicks and wiggles his slacks down his legs with his feet. And with one of his pant legs still dangling off his feet, suddenly he feels her cool hand encircle him. Her face opens up when she looks at him, watching his reaction to her every tentative motion.

Working his hands behind her back he clumsily manages to undo the what must be twenty hooks of her bra corset thing. He doesn't remove it just yet, instead he tells her to hang on and sitting up he strips out of the rest of his clothes, sans socks, and pulls the sheet out.

"This way," he says. Shaking it out with both hands like you do when you’re making the bed, he lets it float down, slinking under it next to her. “you feel less nervous and I don’t have to see you and you don’t have to see me.”

“Well, it sounds horrible when you put it that way―”

“Not horrible. Just how you’re comfortable. It’s kind of pointless to do if you’re not.”

“Okay,” she says. “Thank you, Abed.”

He kisses her lightly and pulls her to him. Her bare breasts soft and warm wedged between them, he kisses her décolleté, down the pale flat of her sternum, her belly and between those pretty pale thighs.

And while he’s no pro, that older woman, the one at the falafel shop when he was a virginal, even more awkward yet very eager teenager ― taught him more than he’d ever care to admit. A form of skill training, you could say. What they would call action learning. Tacit knowledge. Only unlike skills you learn in school or for work, like management techniques or how to solder a circuit board, these were the most important skills a man could learn and always get a positive return on investment.

Pleasuring a woman never suffers layoffs. The demand never falters when the economy takes a dive. It can’t be outsourced or become obsolete. They have yet to develop a machine or device that replaces that anatomical aspect of a man. Although surely the Japanese are working on it.

And so as these things go, everything happens so quickly. His efforts to make her comfortable pay off in ways he didn’t realize as he had never heard Annie make such sounds before, and he only wants to keep hearing it again and again. He moves up over her and her legs instantly lock behind him and there’s nothing stopping him or her now, this is it, the big to do and much like in real life, as these things go, it happens incredibly way too quickly.

And because it’s Annie and because this means something he needs to think of something and quick. The repetitive mantra of, “don’t come, don’t come, don’t come, do NOT come,” racing through his mind isn’t exactly having the effect he was going for. Turns out thinking about not coming makes you have to think of coming in order not to do it, which through all that complicated mind over body stuff, all your dick seems to hear in that is the magic word and then you’re in trouble.

They always say baseball, but he knows nothing about baseball. League of Their Own was baseball. But then, Geena Davis, and he needs something else even quicker now. There’s always Rosie O’Donnell, which helps a little, but then again, Geena Davis. Oh and Madonna. Jesus, what a bad movie to think of.

But then, because he’s just that good in all aspects of life and beyond, Charlie Sheen comes to the rescue with Major League. Total sausage fest. Starring Tom Derenger. Which they were both in Platoon too, but that is nearly too depressing to have in your mind and keep an erection. Although Charlie Sheen was in Two and a Half Men which was pretty much all guys sans the sexually unappealing mother and Berta. But then suddenly the holy crap so hot sexually appealing Kandi. So hitting rewind until he sees Corbin Bernson, The Cleveland Indians come in for the save.

Interrupting his baseball control method, Annie asks him if he’s ok. “You look like you’re in pain.”

Funny how pain and pleasure look nearly identical.

And no, baseball isn’t as helpful as he hoped it would be.

OOOOOO

 

Surely Annie has by now come to the realization on this whole lie of romantic love making stuff. After the fiasco in the closet, no doubt she thought, “Finally, it will be perfect!” All of the Cosmo articles and chick flick romanticized cinematography, soft box lighting and beautifully scored love scenes and all those stupid things that give girls these crazy expectations are making it quite difficult to be a man. Not only are men expected to know every spot, zone, correct ignition timing and pressure (which once you find what works on one, another can be totally different), but now it’s got to be choreographed to _Take my Breath Away_. Everything has to be perfect, but it never is. How can it be? Sex can’t be perfect, because much like hooking up a VCR or driving a car or putting IKEA furniture together, human error is always there in high ratios. Also, men are involved. It’s typically anything but fluid flawlessness. So she knocks him across the cheek with her knee, he jabs her thigh with his thumb and he nearly gets his nose broken a second time until he lays his forearm firm across the front of her pelvis trying to keep her somewhat still under his mouth.

It never goes as perfect and as serious as it does in the movies. It's actually, much more fun. It’s a strange mix of laughing, intensity, violence and tenderness all into one. It’s connecting and engaging at a level you can’t have anywhere else in life. He doesn't need to try or be expected to read her face to know what she feels, he doesn't need this supposed deep eye contact that lets you know how your partner feels (thanks for nothing _Maxim Magazine_ ). She doesn't have to say anything. Every sound, every response of her body says more than any glance ever could. And that alone is a deeper connection he has with her that is beyond any movie ever can.

There is no TV, no movies, no racing thoughts, no detachment, no jumping hoops. Nothing. Just the connected singular feeling of her skin to his. The unspoken understanding and communication that exists only here.

OOOOOO

 

It's a bit of contradiction of when you feel like you've changed your life, that your entire life is now flung into the darkness of the unknown―but everything is exactly the same.

Everything has changed yet nothing has. The characters have won the battle. Saved the princess, destroyed the public domain artifact of evil but there's still laundry waiting in the hamper and a research paper lying on the table. You still have to go to work on Monday. You need to renew your Costco card. The car needs a wash and you should really get around to that eye exam.

Only now he's a bonafide boyfriend, not just some weird guy she lets fondle her a little.

This means a new level of manly responsibilities.

It means growing up.

It means new dates you have to remember and buy corresponding gifts to the degree of their importance.

Thinking about it, they never really had a date before this sex business. And to start with he asked her to live there in a totally platonic way because he didn't like her being in the ghetto.

They did this all incredibly out of order.

But it’s alright, because it's their story. And if he's learned anything in his classes and observations over the years, is that while no story is original, the execution is. And that's what makes us go back to the same kinds of stories time and time again.

But this plot twist wasn’t anything like he worried it would be. All this time, confined by fear of failure, of hurting others, of rejection. Acceptance to being left behind. The unconscious trapping that if you believe something holds you, it is a prison. If you do not wish to leave, it becomes a fortress.

In _Screeenplay in Television: It's Even Easier Than You Thought_ , there's a section on structuring all the elements of a story. Any story. This applies to every story you've ever heard of ever. Even the Bible. Seriously. Look it up.

There are eight specific points laid out in a circle that must go in sequential stages in order to make an effective and satisfying story. And here, right now, he finds himself taking a step forward towards the end of the circle. But then what. Does the story simply end? The pathway is coming full circle and there's nothing you can do but start again at a new beginning. Only on the path you have already laid for yourself. Into a new chapter.

Once you've passed the barriers you've set for yourself, when you let go, you’re free. Free to follow the story you want towards a new beginning, to open a new chapter. It is _your_ story. There is nothing for you to ever fear. When you revel in the random meaningless of this life, when you embrace your own _amor fati_ , there is nothing that you can despair over anymore.

The only one who keeps you from completing full circle is yourself. You're the only one that can make the decision to move forward through to the climax or to remain stationary in fear and decay. And it really is that simple.

You only get one chance to write this story. One chance to get it right. And then it’s too late before you realize. Never question why, never try to find a good reason, because when you think about it, why do anything at all?

Because in real life there are no big damn heroes, no solitary warriors, no outsiders. In this life, there is no reason to stay isolated in our own disconnect, our own racing thoughts, our own manic prisons. We are all interdependent on each other and it’s the characters in our lives that make our stories dynamic and meaningful. That create conflict and resolve and growth. The people who try to edit and rewrite our stories, blind us from our path. And the people who hold and keep us up when we lose sight and trip.

We embark on this life and fight through all its horrors and mysteries and beauties together to the end. Never fear it. For you’ll never be alone.

 

OOOOOO

 

 **A/N:** Well, that’s it kiddos. Finally finished. There were HUGE pieces I really liked and spent so much time on that I had to edit out. Which I wish I didn’t have to, but they just wouldn’t work overall. I have mixed feelings about this fic in general, but ah well, we all hate our own work.

 **References** : Some were obvious, others maybe not so much. I was sneaky in some places and a few are obscure that I put in there for my own narcissistic enjoyment. Including play on dialogue and allusions, in no particular order they were:

_Mad Men, Casino, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Drive (2011), Breaking Bad, Family Guy, Some Like it Hot, Game of Thrones, Friday the 13th Jason X, Die Hard, Birdy, Leaving Las Vegas, Irreversible, Crank, Batman, Roadhouse, Co-ed Confidential, The Big Bang Theory, D.Gray-man, The Notebook, Ocean's Eleven, House, Dr. Phil, The Hunt for Red October, American Pie, A League of Their Own, Major League, Two and a Half Men, Platoon, The Graduate, Mononoke, Top Gun, Robin Hood, Out of Africa_

Thanks for reading, reviewing, faving!

 


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